Well, you could be forgiven for thinking that it is summer, rightly enough. I emerged from the bank holiday weekend burnt to a rather nice hue much reminiscent of a particular species of crustacean which is well known in gourmet circles. Thanks to genes inherited from the non-ginger side of the family, I have now begun to brown nicely. Just as the wind picks up in Ballyfuck bringing more inclement (and more typically Irish) weather in from the Atlantic.
Work was wonderful today. I finally managed to convince myself (and others) that I may be able to do my job correctly after all. The coming of summer brought with it a slew of TCOs - temporary clerical officers - to replace term-time leave taking mums - some of whom are reporting to me, and who have to receive training from me, may God have mercy on their souls.
The great thing about being a TCO is you get out at the end of ten or thirteen weeks or whatever length of time your contract is for. You get to go back to college, go travelling, go back on the dole or even get a real job. TCOs can glance smugly over their shoulders as they walk out of the sections for the last time in September knowing that THIS IS NOT IT - that they may actually make some use out of their MA unlike their boss who is swearing and getting upset about lost forms for a measly €36k a year.
Christ, what did I do wrong? I was a TCO once. The ad for the EO jobs in the national papers lured me in with the promise of actual decision making and various other opportunities for evil. But in reality, I spend most of my time doing review forms and signing annual leave applications for those under my care. No evil potential there, then - even signing my name backwards on the forms, making the "8" in "2008" into a pair of hairy testicles and drawing a devil's tail on the "y" in my name went unnoticed.
Just as the sunlight hits my pineal gland and I stop feeling depressed along comes another reason to kick me in the teeth. Where did I put that bottle of vodka?
Work was wonderful today. I finally managed to convince myself (and others) that I may be able to do my job correctly after all. The coming of summer brought with it a slew of TCOs - temporary clerical officers - to replace term-time leave taking mums - some of whom are reporting to me, and who have to receive training from me, may God have mercy on their souls.
The great thing about being a TCO is you get out at the end of ten or thirteen weeks or whatever length of time your contract is for. You get to go back to college, go travelling, go back on the dole or even get a real job. TCOs can glance smugly over their shoulders as they walk out of the sections for the last time in September knowing that THIS IS NOT IT - that they may actually make some use out of their MA unlike their boss who is swearing and getting upset about lost forms for a measly €36k a year.
Christ, what did I do wrong? I was a TCO once. The ad for the EO jobs in the national papers lured me in with the promise of actual decision making and various other opportunities for evil. But in reality, I spend most of my time doing review forms and signing annual leave applications for those under my care. No evil potential there, then - even signing my name backwards on the forms, making the "8" in "2008" into a pair of hairy testicles and drawing a devil's tail on the "y" in my name went unnoticed.
Just as the sunlight hits my pineal gland and I stop feeling depressed along comes another reason to kick me in the teeth. Where did I put that bottle of vodka?
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1 comment:
take heart, the 32 and a half hour working week leaves plenty of time for wreaking fucking havoc elsewhere.
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